


iv. not a man, but a hound.

by swoledor_clegainz



Series: arsan drabbles [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aspects of the Seven, F/M, prose, the girl and the wolf, the man and the dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 10:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swoledor_clegainz/pseuds/swoledor_clegainz
Summary: the dog has never questioned the truths that spill from the royal lips.





	iv. not a man, but a hound.

**iv. not a man, but a hound.**

He is not a man, he knows. But a hound. 

The dog has never questioned the truths that spill from the royal lips. He laps it up from his place at their feet is if it were honeyed wine. For he is nothing if he is not loyal, as all dogs should be. He is nothing without purpose, and purpose has always been given to him through the sword and the shield. 

The dog has never known anything but blood and steel. He wears this truth upon his head, cast in iron. He is the shadow at the heels of greatness, or so he is told. His eyes are for watching, his hands are for killing, his voice is for yes your grace and no your grace and thank you your grace and yet there is  _no_ grace. Not that he can see. Not that he would see, from his place beneath the table, sniffing at any scrap that is thrown to him. It is the way of the kingdoms, he learns. Wolves howl, lions prowl, stags thunder and dragons roar, and the earth trembles and shakes in their wake. Theirs is the way of blood and fire and fury, and the rest are at their mercy or their bidding. What can the dog do, but obey? 

And yet, even a dog tires of being kicked. Bleeding, covered in rain and shit and mud and blood, the dog tucks tail and runs. He is drowning in drink and half-mad when he finds her. 

It is not the little bird, singing her pretty songs in her cage, but the she-wolf who helps him learn to be a man again. 

Dirty, and small, and angry and  _strong -_ she would spit in his face if he drew too near, and in her eyes like steel burned the fire that had long since turned to mere embers within him. Does she know what dogs do to wolves? If she does it is no concern of hers, for she is looking at him as no one has before. There is no fear and there is no disgust, only the same anger that fuels them both, the same desire for vengeance, the same passion for violence. And suddenly his eyes are for watching, his hands are for protecting, for at last - he has something worth protecting. And her own hands, so small in his, so delicate he is sure he will break her with the slightest misstep. There is a monster in his chest. No, an aching in his heart, no longer dormant. Every time she touches him it as if he is burned again. 

He is not a dog, he knows. But a man. 

 

 

 


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